


get the works

by LieutenantSaavik



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, References to songs, actually references to A Song, and in my defence, but in my defence, it IS a banger, it IS istanbul (not constantinople), references to turkish culture, yes it's the 'istanbul (not constantinople)' song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-29 01:03:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18297254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LieutenantSaavik/pseuds/LieutenantSaavik
Summary: “I’ve lost something,” confessed Aziraphale, putting on his most determinedly wretched expression and planting himself directly in Crowley’s path. “Something important.”Crowley took off his sunglasses to make sure Aziraphale could see him roll his eyes. “Where did you see it last,” he intoned in the style of an overworked, underpaid, kindergarten teacher—in the style of an angel, that is.“Well—” began Aziraphale, and then actually thought about it. He snapped his fingers. “Constantinople.”“Um,” said Crowley.





	get the works

**Author's Note:**

  * For [witching](https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/gifts).



They strolled around shoulder to shoulder through the streets of Istanbul. It was spring, it was Earth, and the days were long and gorgeous; Crowley casually cursed the passers-by with allergies and Aziraphale casually healed them. Neither of them spoke, but Aziraphale turned his hat over and over in his hands. It had started out as a crisp fedora but, with every rotation, looked more and more like a mitre—if mitres came lopsided, edged in rainbow, and embroidered with six-pointed stars. Abruptly, Aziraphale stopped, clutched it to his chest, and gave a sort of strangled squeak. When Crowley didn’t react, he tapped him on the shoulder and gave the squeak again, louder. 

“All right,” Crowley said, turning and folding his arms in front of his chest. “What is it?”

“I’ve lost something,” confessed Aziraphale, putting on his most determinedly wretched expression and planting himself directly in Crowley’s path. “Something important.”

Crowley took off his sunglasses to make sure Aziraphale could see him roll his eyes. “Where did you see it last,” he intoned in the style of an overworked, underpaid, kindergarten teacher—in the style of an angel, that is. 

“Well—” began Aziraphale, and then actually thought about it. He snapped his fingers. “Constantinople.”

“Um,” said Crowley. 

“This whole trip was your idea,” Aziraphale added accusingly, raising his pudgy body to its full, unimpressive height, “So take me back to Constantinople.”

“Um,” Crowley said again. “No, you can’t go back to Constantinople,” he tried to explain. 

Aziraphale stared at him. Eventually, Crowley resigned himself to a history lesson. “Istanbul,” he said slowly, to make sure Aziraphale was processing, “Was Constantinople. Now it’s Istanbul, not Constantinople.” He looked off to the side, thought of the glittering mosaics of Theodora and Justinian, the curvilinear streets they’d walked through then and now. “Been a long time gone, Constantinople. Now, it’s—”

He tried to think of a metaphor that would satisfy Aziraphale’s literary mind, “Turkish delight on a moonlit night.”

Aziraphale looked shell-shocked, staring around at the streets as if trying to collapse five hundred years into one. “It can’t be  _ that  _ distressing,” Crowley protested. “Even old New York was once New Amsterdam. Why they changed it, I can't say,” he added. 

“People just liked it better that way,” said Aziraphale dully, eyes now downcast.

Crowley hadn’t seen him this upset since the death of Brahms. “Yeah,” he agreed cheerfully. “I guess so. Did you really not recognise this place?”

“It’s  _ different _ now,” said Aziraphale defensively, borderline whining. “If it had looked the  _ same _ , I would have noticed that we’ve been here before.”

Crowley declined to remark on the many unchanged church steeples and architectural styles. “On the bright side,” he said instead, “Whatever you lost five hundred years ago might still be around.”

“Oh, no,” said Aziraphale vaguely. “If it were, it would be in a museum. It has been a couple centuries.”

“Five centuries,” said Crowley. “I just said that.”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. “Well. It was just something I wanted to give you.”

“Give me?” Crowley was truly grateful for a moment, and then curiosity came and smacked all that away. “What was it?”

With the air of someone disclosing a great and noble secret, Aziraphale said, “A nazar boncuğu.”

“Cool,” said Crowley. “What the fuck is that?”

Aziraphale glared at him. 

“Yes, of course I’m—er, thank you,” Crowley said hurriedly, still not knowing what it was. “Thank you. It’s a wonderful gift.”

“I just thought,” said Aziraphale, back to being pleased, “That having something of the sort on you might help you with Downstairs.”

Not knowing that a nazar boncuğu was a small, common evil-eye talisman—a more disrespectful person might even say trinket—Crowley was picturing some type of badass holy weapon, maybe a knockoff flaming sword. “Nice,” he said aloud. He could see himself cruising into Hell in short shorts, wielding a sparking dagger. Hastur would be jealous as  _ shit _ . Then again, jealousy being one of the cardinal sins and all, that might get him a promotion. Jealousy  _ was  _ one of the cardinal sins, right? Crowley made a mental note to do some proper demon-ing as soon as he got home. He had just come up with a great idea involving superglue, roads, and coins. 

Aziraphale was talking. Crowley tuned back in. 

“I just hope we won’t miss the service,” Aziraphale was saying, beginning to hurry once more down the street. They sometimes went to services, especially when not in England—Jewish synagogues were their favourites, but Christian churches and Muslim mosques also had appeal. One time, they went to a Buddhist pagoda for a service and waited three hours in the rain for it to start, only to remember that Buddhist pagodas don’t actually have services at all. Then they’d made the same mistake at a Hindu temple a week later. Some services they slept through, some they learned from, and some they walked out of, but mostly they’d listen for the six-thousand-year-old gossip on Gabriel & Co and snicker to each other whenever the speaker said something they knew to be dead wrong. If attending a service at a site famously hostile to the LGBT+ community, Aziraphale would shed his softness, summon his wrath, and arrange for a small technological error in the speaker’s mic, one that might or might not change “thou shalt not” to “thou shall” for each of the ten commandments, and one that would most definitely change “amen” to “gay rights.” Invariably, Crowley would get commended for it.

They walked together for a while, Aziraphale looking around the city with a new appreciation for its history. There was the old cliche that the more things changed, the more they stayed the same, but he didn’t quite believe it—he thought rather that the more things changed, the more the unchanged things stood out to you, endeared themselves to you, were appreciated by you—and yes, of course he was thinking about Crowley.

Crowley, for whom he had one more, very pressing, question. He gave the city around him another once-over, turned to the demon, and caught his attention by taking his hand. He stared into those surprised snakelike eyes, once unnerving and now more familiar than his own, caressed the hand he was holding, and asked, with great solemnity,

“Why did Constantinople get the works?”

Crowley sighed and patted Aziraphale’s cheek. “That's nobody's business but the Turks.” 

**Author's Note:**

> i stayed up until one writing this and i have nothing to say for myself


End file.
